The Latent Powers of Dylan Fontaine (7 page)

Eight

W
HEN I ARRIVE HOME
—hungry, tired, and convinced that I am the biggest jerk on the planet—I hear the Dead Musicians Society in the basement playing Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Child.” The kitchen is littered with dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, and a variety of pot paraphernalia, and there is a note from my dad taped to the refrigerator. It reads:
There’s a full moon tonight so Labor & Delivery is already a zoo. If I’m lucky I’ll see you guys in the morning. Dad.
Inside the fridge is the pan of vegetable lasagna I made last night, but when I peel back the foil, I find out that, except for a spattering of tomato sauce and few stray mushrooms, it’s empty.

All of this, combined with Coach Robinson believing that I like to dress in women’s underwear, and the fact that the police might show up soon to arrest my brother, is enough to put any guy over the edge. But when I hit the Incoming button on our phone’s answering machine, hoping to hear a message from Angie about her sucky time in the burbs and how much she misses me, instead I hear a distantly familiar voice say,
“Hi, guys, it’s me, Mom, calling from Paris. The art show is going very well, and as it turns out, Philippe and I may have to stay a bit longer—”
I decide I’ve had enough. I stop the message midsentence, grab a basketball from the garage, and march downstairs.

The guys are really into the music and for a while they don’t even realize I’m there. Moser’s head is bobbing up and down as he plays a loud, steady bass line, and Headbone is magically keeping rhythm to a song that seems to move all around the room. Randy holds his guitar, effortlessly sliding his fingers up and down the frets, while Nick, all sweaty, belts out
“Well, I stand up next to a mountain, and I chop it down with the edge of my hand….”
The only one missing is Chloe, which is no surprise, really, considering the state of the kitchen.

I take a seat atop the banister, waiting, gripping my basketball until my knuckles turn white. Apparently my father’s recent threat didn’t faze Randy’s friends at all. Not only are they back, they’re high, and as Nick belts out the chorus, “
’Cause I’m a Voodoo Child
…
,
” it really hits me how unfair life can be. I mean here’s a guy who lives on Pop-Tarts, Dr Pepper, and reefer, and just because he’s lead singer in a band and occasionally lifts a few dumbbells, he winds up with the build of Brad Pitt in
Fight Club
and has all the babes, including Chloe, falling all over him. But as I continue to listen to the music, I realize that what pisses me off the most is how good they all sound—my brother best of all.

When the song is over, I throw the basketball at Randy. It grazes his right shoulder, bounces off his amp, and smashes into Headbone’s cymbals. They all look up. “Dylan!” Randy shouts. “What’s going on, man? What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” I jump off the banister and look him straight in the eye. “And what’s going on is this: you and I, right now, are gonna go outside and have a game of one-on-one.”

“What?” He laughs. “You want to play basketball? Dylan, come on, man, do you need to talk or something? You’ve been acting pretty crazy lately.”

Headbone picks up the ball. “Yeah, dude, you all right? You’re looking kind of strange.”

I grab the ball from Headbone. “Yes, Headbone, I’m fine.” I turn back to Randy. “And
no,
I do
not
need to talk. In fact,
talking
is the last thing I want to do right now.”

They all stare at me like I’ve completely lost my mind. Then Moser flashes me a guilt-ridden smile, revealing a telltale piece of spinach stuck between his two front teeth. “Hey, uh, Dyl,” he says, “if this is about the vegetable lasagna, which was really good, by the way, we’re sorry. And if you want to know the truth, it was Headbone who finished off the last piece. I told him not to, but—”

“Hey!” Headbone says. “Get it straight, Moser, you ate half the pan!”

Nick sets down his guitar and looks at me like he’s all concerned about his best friend’s little brother, but he can’t fool me. “Dylan,” he says, “you
are
looking pretty strung out. Did something happen at the Y? Something with Pickler? Do you want to talk about it?”

I’m not in the mood for Nick’s Freudian psychobabble. “No,
nothing
happened. And if you don’t mind,
Nick,
this is between me and my brother, all right? So stay out of it.”

“Ooooooo,” Headbone says. “This appears serious.”

It seems that Randy doesn’t like the way I spoke to his best bud and fellow band member. He walks over and swipes the ball from my hand. “All right, Dylan, if that’s what you want, fine, we’ll play some one-on-one.” He waves to his friends. “Come on, guys, let’s go.”

The five of us head outside to the driveway, where, years ago, my dad sank a basketball pole into the ground for Randy and me. You’d never know it now, but Randy was a starter on his middle school team and even played part of freshman year. That was before he got ultraserious with the Dead Musicians Society and way too cool for team sports. Anyway, back then we played a lot together, and because Randy was always taller and stronger than me, he usually won. Today, however, I have the clear advantage. Not only have I grown half a foot this year, but while Randy was smoking dope all summer, I was lifting weights and playing AAU ball.

Nick, Headbone, and Moser take seats along the driveway while Randy and I face each other under the net. “Twenty-one-point game,” I say. “You get possession first.”

Randy laughs. “Sorry, Dylan. I know you think you’re
all that,
but let me tell you something. Playing basketball is like riding a bike. Two seconds and it all comes back.” He throws the ball at me, hard. “It’s your possession.”

“Hey, do you guys need me to ref?” Headbone calls from the sidelines. “’Cause I’d say you’re both looking pretty psycho right now.”

“No ref,” I say, keeping my eyes on Randy. “In this game,
anything
goes.”

Randy nods. “I’m down with that.”

Moser stands up and scratches his armpit. “Hey, you guys are making me nervous. I mean, what happened to the Dead Musicians Society’s code of honor? I thought we were all about love and peace and—”

“Shut up, Moser!” Randy says. He turns to me. “Now, let’s play ball!”

My adrenaline is pumping, and it feels like every cell in my body is on fire. I take the ball and right away fake Randy out, run past him, and score an easy layup. On the sidelines I see Nick, Moser, and Headbone with their eyes popping out, and when I steal the ball from Randy and score again, I hear them moan. Next Randy tries faking me out, but I call his bluff, put up a solid defense, and block his shot; he falls to the ground. “Hey, that’s a foul!” Headbone yells.

“Dylan!” Nick shouts. “It’s not cool to play dirty, man! Especially against your own brother!”

I toss the ball to Randy and walk directly up to Nick. “Well, guess what, Nick? Right now I don’t need
you
or anyone else telling
me
how to play basketball. So keep your mouth
shut
. Got it?”

Nick glares at me but keeps his cool and, surprisingly, backs off. I walk onto the court with a feeling of invincibility. This doesn’t last long, because a few minutes later, Randy wakes from his drug-induced stupor and starts putting the moves on me. He drives in hard and scores, then boxes me out, steals the ball, and makes a reverse hook shot. With each play the game gets rougher, and when Randy takes the lead, I grab the ball and charge him like a raging bull. We both fall to the ground.

“What’s your problem, dude?” he screams.

I’m lying on top of Randy; the heels of my hands are all torn up, and Randy’s right elbow is bleeding. I grab his wrists and pin him to the ground. “The only one who has a problem,
dude,
is
you
!”

Randy seems to have superhuman strength, because he breaks free, puts two hands on my chest, and gives me a powerful shove. I fall back and hit my head against the pole. Everything starts to spin. Next thing I know, he’s standing over me. “So what is it, Dylan? What do you think my problem is? Except for the fact that I might kill you!”

My ears are ringing, but I manage to stand up. I’m a little wobbly. I feel a warm trickle run down the back of my scalp. “Why don’t you write songs anymore?” I blurt out.

Randy stands there blinking. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” I point to Nick, Headbone, and Moser. “Why do you waste your time playing music with a bunch of stoners who don’t—”

“Hey, I resent that!” Headbone shouts.

“Shut up, Headbone!” I say. I turn back to Randy. “Who don’t have
half
the talent you do? Think about it, Randy, you play
dead
people’s music. And why is that? Are
you
dead? ’Cause ever since Mom left, you—”

Suddenly Randy’s fist connects with my face and I am back on the ground seeing stars. I scramble to my feet and pounce on him, and then it’s pure mayhem. It could be my imagination, but in the midst of the fight I think I hear a girl screaming, “Break it up, you assholes!” I manage to get a few good punches in before Nick, Moser, and Headbone pull me and Randy off each other.

As I sit there tasting blood and feeling a little nauseated, I see Chloe, hands on her hips, shaking her head at the two of us. “Well, well,” she says, “what do you know, it’s Cain and Abel. Is this what you guys do for fun when I’m not around?”

Headbone throws up his hands. “Clo, I swear to God, we tried to stop them, I even offered to ref the game, but they just wanted to kill each other!”

I’m breathing hard and my chest hurts. “Does Chloe know?” I say to Randy.

Randy’s lip is busted, and little pebbles from the driveway are embedded in his right cheek. “Know
what
?”

“That you’re dealing.”

His eyes widen and he starts to laugh. “Dealing? As in drugs? Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Every member of the Dead Musicians Society, including Chloe, is staring at me with their mouths hanging open. “Dylan,” Moser says, “you are seriously mistaken, man. I mean, sure Randy and the rest of us occasionally
smoke
the stuff, well, maybe more than occasionally, but we’re not stupid enough to deal. It’s not like we’re into capitalism or anything. Our band’s not about the legal tender.”

“Yeah,” Headbone says, “we just do a little mind altering from time to time, all in the name of music, of course.”

Nick gives me a strange look. “Dylan, what makes you think Randy’s dealing?”

“It’s not what I
think,
Nick, it’s what I
know
.” I look at Randy. “You even admitted it the other day. Remember? You said your stash was buried on Mr. Pellegrino’s property.”

Randy rolls his eyes. “My own
personal
stash, Dyl. An ounce, maybe, that’s all. And I was only joking about old man Pellegrino. Besides, do you really think the cops would bust a ninety-year-old World War Two veteran?”

“All right then, what about the huge bag of purple-bud under the floorboards in Mom’s studio, and the metric scale you stole from McKinley High?”

Randy’s eyes practically pop out of his head. “Dylan, are you totally whacked? Purple-bud in Mom’s studio? A scale? I haven’t even been in there since she left!”

Chloe walks over and kneels beside me. Her hair is tied up in that signature messy knot, and when the breeze blows I smell her perfume. She studies the back of my head, which is really throbbing now, then gently runs her fingers over my cheek. It wouldn’t be a bad way to die. “Dylan, are you sure you’re okay?” she says. “I mean, a lot of stuff has happened lately, with your mom leaving and all. Maybe you just need to talk about it. Get some things off your chest.”

Moser chimes in. “Yeah, dude, in fact, I can give you the name of this therapist my parents sent me to after they confiscated my computer because they thought I was obsessed with Kurt Cobain’s suicide-slash-murder. Which we all know was a premeditated plot by the evil Courtney Love. Anyway, she was really nice, the therapist, I mean. Pretty, too.”

Headbone throws up his hands. “Come on, Moser, Dylan doesn’t need a shrink! He’s got us!”

Randy picks up the basketball and throws it at Headbone. “Yeah, right.
Doctor
Headbone. What a joke.”

Nick, who obviously doesn’t like the fact that Chloe is tenderly stroking my face, crosses his arms over his chest and says, “I have an idea. Why don’t we take a look? We can dig up Randy’s stash in the backyard and then check out the studio. That way Dylan can see for himself that no one here is dealing drugs.”

Randy shrugs. “Fine with me. What do you say, Dylan?”

At this point, I’m feeling pretty woozy and begin to think that maybe I
did
imagine the whole thing. “All right,” I say, “I guess we can check it out.”

While Nick, Chloe, and I accompany Randy to the burial spot in the backyard, Moser patrols the front of the house in case any cops drive by, or even worse, Mrs. Underwood happens to be walking her yappy runt poodle. Headbone’s job is to keep his eyes peeled for old man Pellegrino.

“Here it is,” Randy says. He’s on his knees in the grass, holding out a wooden box caked with dirt. “Take a look for yourself, Dyl.” Randy hands me the box and I open the lid. Inside is a sandwich-sized Ziploc bag containing a small amount of weed. Regular Colombian. “Like I said, that’s about one ounce. Just enough for me and my buds for a few weeks, if they agree to return the favor.”

“Hey, old man Pellegrino’s curtains just shifted,” Headbone says. “And there’s a strange-looking nose poking out the window. I think he’s spying on us.”

We all look up. “Are you tripping, Headbone?” Randy says. “That’s his golden retriever. Stop being so paranoid.”

Chloe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Dylan, are you sure you want to check out the studio now? Because, well, if you’re not up to it, we can always do it some other time.”

I look into her eyes—light brown with a fringe of pale lashes. “No,” I say. “I’m ready. Let’s get it over with.”

Randy buries the box, and we all go inside. Tripod follows as we climb the stairs and enter my mom’s studio, and when Headbone accidentally bumps into him, he hisses, jumps up, and sinks his claws into Headbone’s leg. “Ow! Hey, get off me!” Headbone grabs Tripod by the back of his neck and flings him out the door. “I told you we should have strung up that stupid cat after he chewed Dylan’s goldfish! He’s a bloody killer!”